Black Heat by Ruby Laska Page B

shade of their manicures; women who laughed easily and joked around and sent him funny text messages. And they all left him feeling like something was missing. They left him feeling even more alone, somehow, because though they often claimed to understand him, none of them really did. They saw only the version of himself that he pretended to be, now that he'd gotten his life in order—a reliable man, a volunteer, and soon, a public servant.
    He didn't blame them for what they couldn't see.
    But when Roan looked at him, it was like she saw straight to the center of him without even trying.
    A throaty growl issued from the kitchen. Angel was trying to get up, rocking back on her damaged hips and leaning against the wall for support, scrabbling with her front paws as she slowly, haltingly got to her feet. The growl, he realized, was her suppressed expression of pain.
    "Oh, girl," he sighed, and went to her side. Wary of touching her while she was in pain, he talked softly to her until she'd managed to get all the way to her feet, then held out his hand to her. She sniffed it gravely, then gave him a single lick and pressed her snout into his palm, begging to be petted.
    He did so, carefully, running his hands over the glossy fur around her ruff and shoulders. He scratched behind her ears and laughed when her whipping tail smacked his hand.
    "Think she’d let me give you another treat?" he asked the dog. Then he shook his head, chagrined. "I've never had a conversation with a dog. Just ignore me. I'm new to this."
    He dug in the cookie jar for one of the little bone-shaped treats, smiling to himself despite his heavy heart. He'd never had a pet. Gram had kept a tidy house for nearly fifty years by the time he moved in, and she wouldn't tolerate an animal indoors. And after, he'd believed it would be cruel to have a dog, given his long hours.
    He offered Angel the treat, and she took it carefully from his flat palm, her soft snout snuffling warmly against his skin. And he realized how much he might have missed out on.
    "Take good care of her, girl," he said softly.
    As he left the cozy apartment, he had a feeling that Roan and Angel were giving each other a reason to keep going.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Roan was almost to the cellar door when the owl started up.
    She froze, just a few steps away from the sloping old wooden doors, the ones her mother used to open in the summer to let light into the basement while she canned berries and vegetables from the garden.
    She knew it couldn't be the same owl that serenaded her outside her bedroom window when she was a girl, but she could swear the mournful "whoo, whoo" sounded exactly the same. Maybe this was a descendant of the original owl; the latest generation to nest in the same tree where her father had built his tree house when he was a child, to prowl the barn for mice, to perch in branches in the middle of the night, to fill the darkness with its eerie tune.
    But it was nearly four in the morning, past the time for even owls to go to bed, and Roan whispered loudly for it to hush. The hooting stopped for a few seconds, then began again.
    It figured that the owl on duty the night she returned to the ranch would be a late, late night owl.
    Roan crept forward, having no choice but to go through with this plan. She didn't think she could pull another all-nighter; she'd set an alarm but was too wired to sleep, and ended up spending the night watching television, with Angel snoozing on the couch next to her. She'd be no good to anyone in the shop tomorrow, asleep on her feet.
    But that didn't—couldn't—matter. Her mistake last time was coming out here too early, when the residents of the bunkhouse were still awake. She wouldn't make that mistake this time. Cal had said that he and one of his roommates were between hitches; they'd take advantage of the days off to sleep in. The roommate who was on the overnight shift wouldn't be back until after seven. She just had to hope the other two kept